


and so, the journey of life begins anew

by Bondmaiden



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Fluff, God Kise, God Kuroko, Human Akashi, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bondmaiden/pseuds/Bondmaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a perfect world where He is a god, He creates Akashi to grace Earth in His place.</p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i> Kuroko has created him from titanium wireframes, bulletproof and impervious to scratches, no matter how many times he has fallen. Seijuro will be eternally doomed to families of a dying mother and a glorious father, a father who will bear on him like a scorching branding iron, and he will live all his life never knowing a mother’s fulfilling warmth—only the solitary coldness of his father’s slap. </i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	and so, the journey of life begins anew

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted god kuroko. that is all. You can imagine him with the funny beard and stuff too if you'd like, like in the manga. Mistakes are 100% mine, and if the story feels disconnected, yeah, that's 100% my fault too since writing under pressure is amazingly crazy. I'll fix stuffs when I come back.  
> Also, if you like music, I kind of like this song too, it's pretty nice:
> 
>   
>  [ **UP! OST - Married Life** ](http://www.infinitelooper.com/?v=sjAWAUc_33k&p=n)   
> 

Kuroko removes His hand.

Callused fingertips capped a gold fountain pen.

When He wipes his hand on the silken robes swathing His body, a long trail of black smudge follows.

But it goes unnoticed.

He's been working on this model of His for a while now. How long is a while, to a god? They are eternally timeless beings. A while may be a decade, may be a century, may be millennia. A while, to Kuroko, is nonexistent when He works. Time means little to Him, comparable to nothing when He's investing it into His creations.

The lithe god steps back in the infinite space of His room to scrutinise the multitude of wireframes arranged in a perfectly straight row in front of Him, like a bizarre private army of empty soldiers. Kuroko could even march right up to them and stick His hand out through their vacant chest, grasping the void, because He hasn't filled them up. Not yet. 

From stage to stage, frame by frame like an animation, He sketched out the lines of an embryo coiled up to His furthermost left. Then it grows like a flower, the soft pucker of its lips even though they're brusque scrawls, where fingers begin to form and squishy legs begin to meet. Wispy hair grows from smooth rounded head in the next few wireframes of His art, the swell of its gums when its teeth begins to grow, the length of its fingernails perfectly rounded off in crescents.

The baby has bloomed into a boy in his younger years within the next few hundred figures, though the gaping sockets of his eyes leave much to be said. He's got pudgy cheeks, wild hair, stubby fingers and thick toes, and Kuroko even had to get on His knees to ensure that He doesn't miss the chance to add a mole under his right foot. A symbolism for the agility he's blessed with.

Arranged in perfect chronological order, one can see the evolution of man, the progress of Kuroko's hard work, the minute details He laved into His creation despite having to redraw the same figure over and over again just to ghost over finer additions that wouldn't have made sense to another's eyes. Kuroko slaves over His masterpiece, adding frames where the boy would scrape his knee when he's six, in a fit of tears when he's eight, until he is a bumbling teen, until he is a formidable man, until he exhales his last breath and _dies._

* * *

Some gods are able to create up to a hundred humans in one go, but there's another problem ahead of them: they lacked depth, details, and are doomed to relive their lives in the rehashed outcomes of their previous encounters. A fishmonger for an eternity, a trader tormented by time, a mother miscarried. Some, however, become animals in another reincarnation. Part of the gods' mischiefs, terrible antics played on their doodles of humanity.

Kuroko, however, comes prepared. There are countless outcomes for this prototype to assume: the façade of a professional shogi master, the mask of a businessman, the soul of a musician, the embrace of a warm father. And Kuroko likes that. He likes to think that this child, teen, man, would have a slew of ripe futures for him to pick so that the end results will vary greatly. 

That's just how Kuroko works. _Differently_. He does not think of only one possibility; He will give him all the alternate realities he can grasp in his hand. 

Because this is His magnum opus, and this man will grace Earth with his otherworldly ways.

* * *

"Kurokocchi, come out to the dining room—wait, you're still working on _that!?_ "

Kise does a dramatic double-take when He steps into the infinite space of Kuroko's room. All manner of furniture gone, there's only a table hosting a drinking flask and a barrage of stacked art supplies. He shakes His head, arms akimbo, and saunters right up to the weedy thing standing before an umpteenth copy of some tangle of wires. 

It's only then when He scrutinises closer that He sees Kuroko wielding a toothpick-fine pen to draw what seems to be… thin air?

"Uh, Kurokocchi?" Kise tries, raising His brows. "What're you doing?"

"I'm drawing, what else," comes the dull reply, static. He doesn't lift His blue head, eyes forever transfixed on the imaginary lines He draws. "And please stop calling me Kurokocchi, call me Kuroko-sama like everyone else."

But His answer goes ignored by the blond. A natural exchange between them, after eons of friendship and talks over dinner.

Kise circles the wiry frame Kuroko's working on, jaw partially unhinged at how the mannequin's arms are admirably long and sinewy, and peers downwards to squint at what Kuroko's doing on the other side. The other god's unblemished face is smooth from emotions, a blank slate only showing signs of functioning with His slightly twitching pen, as He pays no mind to the outside disturbance. He seems to be working on the man's torso, drawing something, but what?

"Am I supposed to see something, Kurokocchi?" Kise asks aloud, tilting His head back. "Because I totally don't see anything."

A heavy sigh. Fractions of seconds are spent on Kuroko half-glowering at the interruption, pen movements halted, and He gestures at the stark emptiness before His eyes. "I'm experimenting with something new, Kise-sama. I thought I'll draw his cells, nerves, organs and bones from a scratch, and fill him later with kaolin. The purity of the mineral is perfect for him.”

Kise can't help but to straighten up at the answer, throat going dry. "... wow, seriously? Can’t you just use the normal stuff we have in the storage? I’m pretty sure we still have like, twenty bags of them in there.” With Kuroko pointedly frowning at His feedback, lips pursed, the blond lifts His hands in a panicked surrender. "No—I mean, that's very new? It's so detailed like what you always do, Kurokocchi. If it were me, I definitely won't spend more than two decades to make a human, you know.”

“You did spend two and a half decades to make Aomine Daiki, didn’t you?” Kuroko shoots back.

“—that’s because his stupid skin colour gave me problems and I keep messing up the ratio for the airbrush paint, so I always had to repaint him,” Kise petulantly argues, pouting a little at the subtle smile Kuroko gives Him. “And I just finished making a Murasakibara Atsushi for Nijimura-sama’s new Himuro Tatsuya, and that took me less than a decade! It’s easier when I’m familiar with who I’m creating.”

The slighter god shrugs. “Everyone has their own way of doing things. I didn't want to stick with the usual orthodox method," Kuroko explains, going back to His work. He makes light jabbing motions, like He's adding dotted textures to just a simple cell, and tips His head to the side to observe it from another angle. A lull invites itself into their conversation: Kise stares, perplexed; Kuroko hums, thoughtful. Then, He resumes. "Midorima Shintarō was made from the standard clay but I didn't think of drawing his innards because it's an automated process. Now I want to try something else.”

That familiar name rings bells in Kise's head. "Oh yeah... Midorima Shintarō. Isn't he the guy who was a military doctor at first? Then he's reborn into a feudal lord, and then lawyer in the 1920s, was it? What's next?"

Kuroko nods, though He never lifts His head. Only the rapid motion of His hand continues. ”He's going to be reincarnated again soon. He'd like to be a doctor in a modern general hospital, he said.”

The blond hums, but it’s an empty sound of agreement. He can’t quite understand how Kuroko works, but He respects how the other god functions as He putter about with His hands, making things grow in their very own garden called Earth. Other gods can’t compete with Kuroko; He’s slow—awfully slow, Kise knows that, but someday, He’ll get there. And once Kuroko gets to His destination, to the terminus of His latest creation, Kise could bet His ten fingers that the world will be in awe of this perfection.

Sighing, Kise casts a forlorn look at the mannequins, narrows His eyes, bites His lip, and dips His back to meet Kuroko’s gaze. 

“I’m _so_ envious.”

* * *

Every reedy vein, every pulsing artery, every thick tendon, every minuscule cell, every curling tracheal ring, every pliant curve of his spine, _everything_ is exclusively his, and there will be no man who shares his unique DNA. 

Even his thumbprint itself is a complex circle representing his life.

When he's sick, his hands will turn blotchy white with specks of red, his fingers will tremble, and he'll be prone to runny nose with chances of pounding headaches. Even if he’s able to sight-read for violin and piano pieces, he will still fumble out of his bed in the morning and has more chances of falling onto his face when his horse rebels against him.

Oh. And he's short. Despairingly so.

An equal exchange for one so perfect.

* * *

A blanket of stars smothered the floors of His room, the gaseous violets streaking across the galaxy with sparkling diamonds scattered on its surface. It’s already nighttime on half of the Earth, and no doubt Kise’s room would be filled with the other half: rays of radiant sunshine, mellow and warm, just like the god Himself. Kuroko eases Himself out of the frown He hasn’t realised He’s been wearing, a frown that hurts His facial muscles when He tries to relax, and takes half a step backwards to admire the progress of the human He’s building.

The row of wireframes all have definable features now; rounded eyes giving way to slanted, catlike ones with his acceptance into adulthood, variations of hairstyles from bed heads to long bangs to short crops, lean torso gradually shaped into chiseled abs, and strong, powerful legs to carry him through a sports track like a pouncing lion. Kuroko can’t quite hide the strange smile seizing His lips as He looks from one copy to another; they’re staring at Him, He’s staring at them, and for a moment, there blossoms pride somewhere inside His body.

Putting His drawing pen on the claw-footed table nearby, Kuroko wipes His stained hands on His robes again, and glances at an opened sketchbook sitting on a stool.

“It’s time to give you a name, and to make your history.”

* * *

Kuroko’s jottings are gunshots firing words across the book, a chaotic mind map of this man’s character.

His name is Akashi Seijuro. That’s 赤司 for Akashi, and 征十郎 for Seijuro.

Kuroko has specifically chosen the kanji of his name to reflect his essence: the theme of a red commander, one who will deliver perfect subjugation to whomever crosses his path. Like a namesake, he will be seeing red, red, _red_ for courageous fire and thick blood, for boundless energy and zealous passion, deep desires and love—love that he never has and never will have.

To make Seijuro as he is, what he will be in all lifetimes, he has to suffer for it. 

No matter; Kuroko has created him from titanium wireframes, bulletproof and impervious to scratches, no matter how many times he has fallen. Seijuro will be eternally doomed to families of a dying mother and a glorious father, a father who will bear on him like a scorching branding iron, and he will live all his life never knowing a mother’s fulfilling warmth—only the solitary coldness of his father’s slap. 

He is a tactical thinker who scouts then leads the path, yet he wishes not to shine among others as he’s content to observe without much interference; he is humble about his status and isn’t mouthy of it, yet he knows how to behave the part of a well-bred heir and excels in his studies. There are times where fate will test his endurance towards pressure, internally and externally, and he _will_ break—because kaolin makes porcelains, and porcelains are fragile beauties—but. _But_ Seijuro—that’s the miraculous thing about Seijuro—Seijuro will not falter, Seijuro will stand strong, Seijuro will win through it all.

He is a perfection built from a mountain of flaws, but his resilience will get him through.

* * *

At long last, Kuroko finally evicts His seat and begins pouring glass vials of colours into the little pockets of His weathered palette. Hand-painted, because Seijuro doesn’t deserve to be synthetically sprayed like plastic chess pieces, and Seijuro himself is Kuroko’s lavish creation. Each daub of paint screams Kuroko’s trademark; broad, sweeping strokes for the volume of his hair, watery red irises washed against white eyeballs, alabaster skin like the opulent china he’s made of, and pinkish, slightly chapped lips. Kissable, like he’s meant to be showered with kisses to make up for all that he’s lost.

Just for the sake of making Seijuro more humanly, Kuroko dots more moles; one near the dip of his inner thigh, another on his wrist, and one more near his temple. Seijuro’s future lover will have a fun time searching for these marks of imperfection, He thinks.

(—in hindsight, those are symbolic: Seijuro will be good with his hands and feet and mind, piano and violin and basketball and horseback riding and archery and shogi.)

* * *

“—so you know, I just kinda finished making this girl?”

Kuroko nods. His hand swipes a colour from the palette and dabs it on an adult Seijuro’s eyelid.

“And she’s super cute, huge breasts, fleshy thighs and all that.”

Kuroko nods. He stops to feather out the strokes, and resumes almost promptly.

“She’s got pink hair and she’s like a cotton candy when she’s with Aominecchi, ‘cause blue and pink look so good together.”

Kuroko nods. His thumb reaches out to smear the white blobs on Seijuro’s high cheekbone to contour.

“But you know, Kurokocchi, their story is going to be really sweet because Aominecchi is childhood friends with Momocchi and he really likes girls with big boobs—Momocchi has them, but ironically Aominecchi doesn’t fall for her straight away! I’m making them doomed to be together forever in all their lifetimes because it’s like a romantic comedy, don’t you think?”

Kuroko nods. He douses His paintbrush in the murky water to cleanse the colours and picks up yet another hue.

Sitting on the stool where Kuroko previously laid out His compilation of Akashi Seijuro’s life, Kise can’t help but to stare at how Kuroko’s chasing a perfectly non-existent deadline with how He toils tirelessly. Being offended is far from Kise’s mind, really, because that’s how Kuroko is. But a one-sided conversation can only get as interesting as ten minutes into listening to a parrot, and He knows He didn’t come all the way here, floating through cornered hallways and declining lunch dates with other female gods just to see Kuroko’s tensed shoulders as He paints nonstop. 

It is then, from the corners of Kise’s wandering eyes, that He spots a spare set of paintbrushes lying on the floor closest to the tenth copy of Seijuro. 

He doesn’t need to tiptoe to grab it, this isn’t some Mission Impossible movie and it doesn’t help that Kuroko’s drowned too deep into this wonderland he crafted. Kise goes back to the lone marble table, carefully setting aside Seijuro’s book of life, and snickers to Himself as He unpacks a tube of paint from its ornate wooden casing. Squirting a copious amount on His own brush, He examines its vibrant shade and nods resolutely.

 _This_ , Kise thinks, _will be good._

* * *

Kuroko doesn’t remember painting a fourteen-year-old Seijuro’s left eye _yellow._

It’s a jarring mistake, a terrible disaster that shouldn’t be happening to Seijuro. The severe contrast from red to yellow makes Seijuro a feral beast whose piercing eyes bore holes into Him with sharp drills. Putting a hand on His forehead to nurse the incoming tsunami of _whys_ and _hows_ and _whats_ , Kuroko tucks His palette under His arm and pinched His eyes close. 

His mind does a speedy playback of His actions, from mixing the contrasting colours to a perfect consistency, from wiping His utensils with a rag whose patches of colours would shock anyone, from referring to Seijuro’s chart to ensure that He does not go astray, from where He vaguely recalls that someone blurted out a series of sentences about pinks and blues and sweets and—

— _ah._

If only Kise isn’t such an important god to Kuroko, He would’ve sent the other god to Nijimura for proper disciplinary actions. 

Stifling a sigh, Kuroko goes up to the teenage Seijuro and gauges the damage dealt. The still, lifelike yet lifeless creature stares back at Him almost challengingly, like he’s daring Kuroko to do something about the change of circumstances. To His credit, Kuroko does lift the hem of His sleeve, rubbing His thumb against the gelatinous depression of Seijuro’s tainted eye to see if the paint will come off. But Kise’s done such a good job in copying Kuroko’s fastidious method of painting, all murky shadow outlines and glittering gold highlights until Kuroko gives up trying to get it to go away.

He could always repaint over the top, but then again, Kuroko doesn’t like that because the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Seijuro’s eyes shouldn’t have layer over layer over layer over them. He doesn’t have to heart to scrap this model either, because all of the Akashi Seijuro are precious to Him. And, of course, He doesn’t want to build another replica because He’s already gotten himself into the euphoric trance of painting and having to fall back to sketching dampens His mood. 

Rubbing His nape, Kuroko removes Himself from Seijuro’s presence and treks backwards.

It’s time to consult his book of life once more.

* * *

Actually, that single golden eye isn’t so bad after all. 

If burdened with expectations and stress, Seijuro will begin to crumble from within. Gradually deteriorating, but his battered body will take him through. However, if pushed beyond belief where he’s smashed with pressure, both psychological and emotional torment, Seijuro will shatter into nothing but dust, leaving only a frame behind. To symbolise the change he underwent would definitely have to be something significant, something that impacts his entire image and lends him the guise of a superior, more dominant alpha male.

This is another one of his flaws, a beautiful one at that: a permanent reminder that his psyche has metamorphosed into a deeper facet of his persona, to abandon others instead of being abandoned, disregarding the society that purely nurtured him within a harsh, contained environment.

Kuroko knows this well like the back of His hand, and finds that the idea of a Seijuro blessed with heterochromia serves its purpose well.

With that decided, Kuroko halves the teenage Seijuro collection into ones bearing the golden mark in their left eye, and the other half with the typical red eyes. Yet another outcome for Seijuro’s life, just another distant possibility, just another unforeseen occurrence. And for as long as he never finds peace within himself, he will never revert into the boy he once was.

* * *

It’s finally time.

Time to let him go.

Time to give him the kiss of life.

* * *

Kuroko kisses Akashi Seijuro on the lips—it is out of love, but not the love you’d think it is. 

It is the love of a creator to its creation, the love of a god to a human. The compassion it carries burns brightly like the confessions and prayers of devotees. Between Him and Seijuro, they share a special relationship like no other. Fingers digging into an adult Seijuro’s able shoulders, Kuroko has to lean up a little to reach Seijuro’s kissable lips, exhaling life through a slightly parted mouth, sharing a bit of His immortality with him. 

Kuroko patiently, fondly, earnestly kisses all of the frames, it takes Him several moons and suns to finish this arduous task, and by the time He’s done, His lips are all chapped, aching and sore, throbbing.

He holds back the fight brewing within, punishing Himself with happy thoughts of finally granting His creations the life they deserve, and closes His eyes.

Blue lashes tremble.

“As your creator, your god, the One whom you worship, it is time to awaken, my children.”

At once, all of the Seijuro awaken at His command, glassy eyes like a starting computer, and a deafening cacophony of voices ensue; of crying babies and murmuring teenagers, of confused adults and coughing old men. They looked at each other quizzically, mirrors of one another, registering the new sights and sounds, then they simultaneously looked at Him with not quite understanding in their eyes, half-golds and half-reds burning down on tranquil blues. Confusion, worry, curiosity, every bit of human nature flashes through their roots right down to fingertips, just the sort of human all these Seijuro are.

Kuroko doesn't do farewells, that’s Kise’s job most of the time because the blond’s always so motherly to His creations, smacking kisses on their cheeks and caressing their hair, and He knows He won’t do farewells for these Akashi Seijuro either. Midorima didn’t get this special treatment, so why should he? Kuroko’s content enough to step back, watching the Almighty will of the universe consume them in a marvellous colourful orchestra of lights, without even letting a single word slip past His lips.

Kuroko doesn’t do farewells.

He doesn’t say farewell because

farewells are hard.

Hard, because He knows only one adult Seijuro will return to His arms at the end of his lifespan, and not all of them.

* * *

Kuroko takes a break, a long-deserved break from working over a millennium and four centuries of working on Seijuro, and spends some time watching him. He stocks up on ambrosia and lotus roots, nibbling on them as He circles His table and sits cross-legged. Still in His stained robes, still having stained fingertips.

It’s like one of those cinemas Kise yaps about in the human world, where they have huge screens in front of the viewers and subtitles are at the bottom of the screen, only, Kuroko’s room is the cinema itself and He’s the permanent ghost crouched in the corner, observing the Akashi household’s interactions.

Seijuro’s father, a stern man with twitchy moustache and receding hairline, has a habit of walking through His body, frequently getting the chills from it. You know when humans say that they feel someone—no, _something_ watching them? There is a god with you. And this is what gods do: they sit with their creations, they watch their every movement, they feel for their little children who clutch knives to scarred wrists, they smile fondly when one graduates as valedictorian, and they listen to prayers after prayers in whitewashed hospital rooms reeking strongly of disinfectant and stale medicine. 

Kuroko, too, watches over a young Seijuro, perches on creaking tree branches observing Seijuro scamper about with a basketball, kneels by the bedside when Seijuro reads books before going to sleep. He holds Seijuro’s hands that are clasped in a prayer when his mother falls to sickness, holds him close when Seijuro cries himself to sleep through nightmarish days following her death, and holds him up whenever the months of books, studying, horse-riding, violin practices—just everything and anything are trying to shake him to the core.

But Seijuro, Seijuro is titanium, he is bulletproof and impervious with Kuroko’s perpetual love, the love of a god to His creation, and he will emerge stronger with every challenge Kuroko’s laid in his path.

No matter how many times he has fallen.

* * *

At thirteen, Seijuro goes to Teiko. He joins a basketball club. 

Girls swoon hearing his name. 

He smiles at them, but it never reaches his eyes.

* * *

At fifteen, he graduates with the crown of a captain.

His father ships him off to Kyoto, Rakuzan.

There, he repeats history as captain again.

* * *

Sometimes Kuroko wonders if He’s made Seijuro’s fate too cruel, just like a heretic god who revels over His creations’ suffering. But when He sees 20-year-old Seijuro opening his mother’s altar and replacing the dried, crusted flowers with fresh lilies and chrysanthemums—just the ones she likes, the ones she placed in his hair like the only innocent piece left in his life—Kuroko knows, and doesn’t regret His choice.

No perfection will come without a price.

* * *

At thirty, Seijuro surprises Kuroko by going down a path that Kuroko never thought it would be possible. 

He turns down a woman arranged by his father—a fair lady with almond eyes, high nose bridge, a lovely fusion of an Asian-Caucasian mix. Seijuro makes it razor sharp that he will not wed anyone, and holds his tongue out of further respect when his father begins an autopsy on his decision. Hands folded in His lap on the robes, Kuroko sits beside Seijuro right across his scowling father, the shadowy god He is, and thinks that even in his old age, the old man’s eyes never fail to rove over Seijuro like he’s a mistake brought into this world.

“And what grandchild will you give me, Seijuro?” he spits out, his walking stick shaking with the force he grips it. “Don’t tell me you’ve shamed the family even more by impregnating an unwedded woman?”

Seijuro doesn’t flinch, but Kuroko does. 

(Discreetly, Kuroko wonders who made Seijuro’s father—what drove the god to make such a crabby person to become the parent of anyone, and shakes His head.)

“I’ve already thought this out, father,” is Seijuro’s decisive reply. Chin parallel to the ground, shoulders squared. “I will adopt a child from an orphanage and raise him or her as my own. A bright child who doesn't belong there—someone who will continue the difference I’m trying to make in the Akashi family. It won’t be the grandchild you are expecting from me, but it is what I’m willing to deliver.”

Seijuro’s father sputters for words, chokes on his own saliva, and makes a grab for the teacup on the glass table. He downs the tepid liquid in three hasty gulps, sets the cup back on the table so sharply until it cracks, and narrows his eyes at his defiant son. Seijuro returns the look with a serene nod, well aware of what he will say, and places his hands on his thighs, palms up. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does his father.

Always, just like always, Kuroko reaches out and holds Seijuro, holds his hand, a phantom limb overlapping between reality and fantasy, twining fingers in the gaps. The only love a god can give to His creations.

Seijuro’s fingers curled in.

* * *

There comes a time for everything to return to its essence.

And Seijuro’s day draws closer than ever.

* * *

He delivers what he promised.

Shuichi is eight, likes complicated books but can’t quite afford a dictionary with his weekly ¥200 allowance, gets isolated from friends because he doesn’t quite fit in the poster jigsaw puzzle of a problematic orphan child, and knows who Seijuro is from the moment he stepped into the parlour to make his selection. 

“You’re that man who bought the Sozen com-pah-nee to save it from stuffs.” Shuichi gawks when Seijuro kneels down to get into a comfortable eye-to-eye level, and grins toothily when the caretaker shushes him. “The TV said you’re one of Japan’s richest man!”

Seijuro’s smile is there. “And you will inherit it, if you come with me.”

“Really!?”

“Yes, really. Do you want to go away from here and live together?”

The grin on Shuichi’s face widens. “Yeah! I wanna be like you too!”

Seijuro’s smile finally reaches his eyes.

* * *

Shuichi is renamed to Ingyo, Ingyo like the legendary emperor of the fifth century, a namesake powerful enough to lend the boy strength like his father. Ingyo’s brilliant like what Seijuro wanted from a child, but he’s a bit weak when it comes to physical activities. Must’ve been from all the times he spent indoors unlike other children, Kuroko muses as He watches them rehearse together; Seijuro with a violin, and Ingyo with a piano.

“You’re hitting the wrong key, Ingyo.” Seijuro sighs, shaking his head. “Try again from the top.”

Instead of training him like what his late father does, Seijuro educates him. Instead of scolding, Seijuro encourages him. Instead of beating, Seijuro holds him. There is no better parent than Seijuro himself, the man with the warm embrace of a father, just the way Kuroko made him.

* * *

The time has come.

Seijuro’s day will end.

* * *

Watching Seijuro die is painful, and Kuroko knows that much. 

Ingyo’s hunched over his father’s bedside, fast asleep, drool streaking down his chin. He’s spent four sleepless days looking after the man until dark bruises formed under his eyes and stubbornly refused Seijuro’s orders to leave him be. No nurses, no doctors allowed, not even the renowned expert Midorima. Seijuro’s no longer the spry young man he was; his life withers, flower petals falling like the ones on his mother’s altar, and knows that it won’t be long until Ingyo will be the one continuing the cycle—this time, for three picture frames on the table: one for his grandmother, one for his grandfather, and one for his father, Seijuro. 

Sitting beside him, Kuroko holds his hand.

The smile on Seijuro’s lips are unmistakable. His red eyes flit briefly to meet pale blue. 

“When are you going to take me?” he rasps, calmly raising his brows. “Mind doing it now? Ingyo’s a noisy crybaby when he starts his waterworks. I want to go quietly.”

There are some people, they said, who are able to see death in all its glory when the time comes for their scheduled departure. For Seijuro, death comes as an enshrouded entity with gaunt skin, wearing grubby robes with smudged prints, coloured by the faintest summer skies. He doesn’t remove his hand from Kuroko’s chilling hold; death is ice colder than just His snowflake touch. It never bothered him. Not when he’s used to it over all the years.

“You should at least say goodbye,” says Kuroko. “Your son will be in deeper grief if he doesn’t get to see you go.”

“It’s a disappointment I’m sure he can handle.”

When Kuroko gives him a lopsided smile, the redhead laughs, but half of the sound dies off when he starts wheezing for breath. _Say no more._ Kuroko silences him with a finger to his lips, shaking His head. _We’re only wasting our time._ He swoops down, silk brocades splayed over the cotton bedsheets, holding an arm out next to Seijuro’s head. _For the inevitable._ Kuroko closes His eyes, and Seijuro does the same.

Blue lashes tremble.

He’s taking back what belongs to Him, so why does it hurt so much?

Their lips meet, a conflict of growing coldness and fading warmth. The bed melts underneath His fingertips, throwing them down a tunnel-like chasm whirling all around, and Kuroko’s robes flare out behind Him in the wind as they both fall into the eternity waiting beyond. Worlds collide, realities blur, hereafter surfaces. No more summer cicadas singing songs outside his bedroom windows, no more murmuring maids knocking into his bedroom to deliver phone calls, no more worldly affairs.

It’s just a god and a human all over again.

A hand reaches out to fist His hair, clammy, and lips part to devour His. Kuroko’s eyes want to snap open, His body wants to jerk away, His mind tugs, tugs, _tugging_ at His sanity as a divine god to stop this madness, but His heart is unwilling. Lying underneath Him is the only copy of His Akashi Seijuro, a 24-year-old man, the sole returner from his passage of life on Earth, and this is their only shared moment of intimacy. There’s no second chance. They need to make the most of it. 

So He stays.

Lying on the hard floor of Kuroko’s room, they exchanged open-mouthed kisses, each hungering for more. Deliciously wrong, morally corrupt by the guidelines the Counsel of Gods have established—no heretics or demigods, no half-humans half-gods since they’ve had enough of that in Greek, but gods cannot fall down from grace like angels do when they commit acts of treason. Gods are more powerful than that. Kuroko shouldn’t be taking advantage of this even when Seijuro’s lips leave butterfly kisses down His neck and He’s willingly tugging off His robes to reveal cool skin pressed against human warmth, no, not when He’s fighting to get closer to Seijuro and straddles his groin—

—no, not when Seijuro looks up at Him through half-lidded eyes, whispering into His shoulder as he pulls the rest of Kuroko’s clothes off, “It’s wrong for me to love you like this, even after all those years.”

After 77 years of separation, now they fall together, making up for all the time they lost in the nooks and crannies between.

* * *

“I want to stay with you.”

There comes a time for everything to restart once more.

“You can’t.”

And Seijuro’s time has come for him.

“You make humans, correct? I can stay and assist you in the process—“

Kuroko shakes his head, lowering His eyes. “You can’t, Seijuro,” He repeats like a mockingbird, hollow, devoid of meaning. “A human cannot stay with a god, because that is not your purpose. Humans serve gods obediently and will go down to Earth to live like what they should be doing. You can’t stay with me, even if—” _I want you to_ , “—you offer me your assistance in making other humans for Earth. That’s—“ _taboo_ , “—unheard of.”

“It’s a sin I’m willing to commit,” Seijuro replies. Then, at Kuroko’s persistent staring, He exhales quietly and reaches out. This time, he holds Kuroko’s hand, not the other way round. “Your presence was always in my life even when I couldn’t see you. Sometimes my back feels cold and I know you’re there. Some other times, you’ll hold my hand, and you never stopped holding it even when I’m old. I shouldn't fall in love with something I can’t see, but it was too late. And now that I know who you are, I’m not going away.”

Pretending not to hear his words, Kuroko looks away and picks up the emptied paint tubes scattered on His work table. “You can pick whether you’d like to stay in stasis and start a new life after a decade, or you can select your new life right away. Mind you,” He throws back a glance, “waiting in stasis means something like a coma. You won’t be aware of your surroundings, at least not until I reawaken you for your next cycle.”

Seijuro is only quick to ask, “If I begin a new life cycle—“

“—you will lose all memories of me, until you die, until I come and fetch you again,” the god continues for him, wearing a thin smile on His face. “We meet, we kiss, we part. That’s all there is to it.”

The silence that greets Him is piercing, an empty hum resonating in the room. 

Kuroko’s wrong. Watching Seijuro dying isn’t painful at all. Watching Seijuro’s face contort into an expression of hurt, frowning, lidded eyes, alive—it’s the most painful sensation gripping Kuroko’s heart and bleeding Him raw. 

No matter how many years, no matter how many lifetimes, their fates are doomed from the start. They meet on Seijuro’s death, they kiss in Kuroko’s room ~~as rejoining lovers~~ , only to part again after decades of separation. Accepting reality is a bitter medicine to swallow, a lesson in love—love that Seijuro never has and never will have, just like what’s written on Seijuro’s book of life from the start.

He says nothing else. The quiet, almost mechanical way of how Seijuro turns away is a familiar swish whenever he knows he has to cope with something heavier than the rest of the world, and Kuroko stops Himself from reaching out to him.

It would only make their imminent farewell harder. 

“Then I choose to leave for my new life now, if you’ll let me,” Seijuro answers, decisive. His voice carries strong, but he keeps looking over his shoulder to meet Kuroko’s eyes. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I will die, the sooner I will meet you again. If we meet, only to part, then so be it. It’s better than nothing.” 

He is a perfection built from a mountain of flaws, but his resilience will get him through.

And Kuroko knows that all too well as the god who built him.

So He steps back, watching the Almighty will of the universe consume Seijuro in a marvellous colourful orchestra of lights, without even letting a single word slip past His lips. Only after Seijuro leaves, Kuroko allows Himself a moment of weakness: brought to His knees, taking deep lungfuls of breath, screwing His eyes shut as His room fades off into a cube of four white walls and disinfected linoleum floors and fluorescent lights and monitoring beeps and a baby’s loud cry and nurses cooing and a doctor congratulating—

—and so, the journey of life begins anew. 

 

 

 

 

“—eeeh, one cycle is already done and you didn’t even tell me!?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Kise puffs out His cheeks and sulks. Kuroko’s room has changed its scenery once more, this time, accommodating Seijuro’s garden; Kuroko’s kneeling near a patch of homegrown herbs tended by the mother, and Kise squats beside the pale god, mumbling under His breath about grass-stained robes. The birds chirped as loud as the summer cicadas, the glaring sunlight burns their skin, and the smell of fresh breeze carries from beyond the hills of the Akashi family’s summer home.

“It sure is nice to see a young kid running around,” Kise muses. He gives a discreet glance to the other god from the corners of His eyes, finds that Kuroko is despondently staring at the little redhead pulling an earthworm from the safety of its hole, and sighs heavily. “But seriously Kurokocchi, pay attention to me a little? I’m checking up on you, you know?”

“I’m fine, Kise-sama. You needn’t worry about me,” replies Kuroko, shaking His head. 

He doesn’t turn to acknowledge Kise. 

He only clutches onto a fistful of his still-stained robes, and does nothing else.

Seijuro’s mother works languidly, humming a nostalgic song that Kise vaguely recognises as _Ue no Muite_ , and a young Seijuro tumbles onto the soft ground after wrestling with a particularly hard-willed weed sprouting from a flowerbed. Kuroko chuckles watching their affair, the faint breeze tickling His cheeks. And Kise squats there beside Him, wearing the biggest frown He’s known to associate with Kuroko when it comes to being ignored. Reaching out a hand, He waits for the other to bat Him away.

“Kurokocchi?”

Silence.

Kise doesn’t receive a reply. 

He lets His hand drop.

He leaves.

* * *

When Kise returns, it is with the brightest smile and the darkest eye bags Kuroko’s ever seen on the god, wearing some of the most shocking ensemble of raggedly stained robes.

“What’s gotten into you, Kise-sama?” Kuroko asks.

All around them, fresh young students of Teiko Junior High School flooded the school grounds, passing through their bodies like they’re nothing more than air. Spring is in the air this time, it marks the 13th year of Seijuro’s new life. The wind floats fragile pink petals from the luscious sakura trees decorating the scenery, and loud chatters carry through the breeze as students of all sizes carry themselves about. The new ones were obviously nervous, treading closely to the sides. The seniors waded through the sea of humans with confidence shining from their gel-slicked hair.

“It’s nothing, Kurokocchi,” He brushes it off with a wink, giving Kuroko a lopsided grin. “So where’s the little Seijurocchi?”

Kuroko only points towards the gates. “There, he just arrived.”

There’s a redhead getting out of a fancy car, wearing a firmly pressed Teiko uniform with its lapels starched and necktie pinned into place. Face still round with baby fat, hair sticking out like a wild lion, Seijuro is the epitome of the average teenager fumbling into puberty, despite his gallant life history written by Kuroko. His family driver gets out at the same time and circles the car to reach the young master before he leaves, but disaster strikes at the exact same moment he throws the door open.

Someone crashed into it.

He falls unceremoniously onto the ground. 

A muted groan ensues.

And Kuroko swallows deeply.

Seijuro’s eyes are wide, startled, and he drops his book bag to rush to the unfortunate boy’s side. The driver stands petrified at the mistake he’s done, then quickly regains himself as he goes over to the car’s trunk to retrieve a stainless steel case of First-Aid kit lodged somewhere in there. The smooth flow of students coming into the school breaks into two halves of a river, some are staring and whispering, others are pointing and moving on.

“Are you all right?” Seijuro asks the boy who’s doubled over in pain, his small hands rubbing soothing circles down right down the spine. “I apologise for his mistake, it’s only his first day at work. I hope you’ll forgive him.”

Shakily, the boy lifts his head and coughs. 

Blue eyes meet red.

“It’s all right… I’ve always been rather invisible to others.”

* * *

The classroom is a bit cramped, but Kise’s made a new home out of the teacher’s desk and ignores how the balding old man keeps sticking his hand through the god as he explains geometrical shapes to the students. Kuroko opts to stand elsewhere, just a bit closer to the broad glass windows, just a bit closer to Seijuro who sits in the front row of the classroom like the good student he is, just a bit closer to the pale young boy with blue hair and blank eyes seated right behind the redhead—just a bit closer to the perfect copy of Himself.

Kuroko’s voice is quiet. 

“Why did you make him?”

“Because Kurokocchi is sad that He can’t be together with Seijurocchi,” is Kise’s simple reply.

“This isn’t going to work,” Kuroko says. His hands are tight balls of unreadable emotion. Maybe He’s going to punch Kise. “What have you done, Kise-sama?”

But Kise throws His head back and laughs so loud, it rips through the silent classroom. He leaps off the teacher’s desk in one graceful motion, gravitating happily towards where Kuroko stands, yet He makes no attempts to touch the shorter god. 

“What I’ve done?” He hums cheerfully, tipping His head to the side. “Nothing much, Kurokocchi. I just cursed little Tetsuyacchi so that no matter how many lives he relives, no matter how many worlds he’s thrown into, he’ll always find Seijurocchi—Tetsuyacchi’s doomed to love no one other than Seijurocchi for all his lifetimes.”

The teacher belts out a question on the abused chalkboard and jabs at Seijuro to answer it. The young redhead easily fills in the answer with a fat white chalk and ignores how the teacher’s left sputtering for words. Seijuro turns and makes his way back to his seat, but his eyes meet Tetsuya’s and they both share a secret smile.

Kuroko diverts his gaze, tensed. He looks like He’s about to retch. “Why did you do this to me, Kise-sama?”

Kise shrugs. Playing it casual, He gently brushes His fingers over the back of Kuroko’s hand, hesitant, and finally summons enough courage to hold Him tight. “Just to give you a chance to fall in love.”

The answer should’ve made Kuroko nail Him with one of His deadly punches, but He doesn’t. Tetsuya reaches into his bag and withdraws an empty notebook, but not a pencil case. Shoulders drooping, Kuroko casts one long look at the studious Seijuro who’s hunched over his textbook. Tetsuya looks around, trying to establish an eye contact with someone, but finally gives in with a sigh and reaches over to tap the redhead on his shoulder. 

Seijuro turns, listens to Tetsuya’s request with a frown—

“Excuse me, Akashi-kun, may I borrow a pencil from you? I seem to have forgotten my pencil case.”

—and then breaks into a laugh under his breath, indulgent, already fishing out a red and black pencil from his case.

“Of course, Kuroko-kun.”

There comes a time for everything to restart once again.

Kuroko’s time has come for Him.

So He uncurls His hand and twines His fingers with Kise’s. 

“I’ll scold you later, Kise-sama.”

And so, the journey of life begins anew.


End file.
